18
I carried the drink over to a small table against the wall and sat down there and lit a cigarette. Five minutes went by. The music that was coming through the fret had changed in tempo without my noticing it. A girl was singing. She had a rich deep down around the ankles contralto that was pleasant to listen to. She was singing Dark Eyes and the band behind her seemed to be falling asleep.
There was a heavy round of applause and some whistling when she ended.
A man at the next table said to his girl: “They got Linda Conquest back with the band. I heard she got married to some rich guy in Pasadena, but it didn’t take.”
The girl said: “Nice voice. If you like female crooners.”
I started to get up but a shadow fell across my table and a man was standing there.
A great long gallows of a man with a ravaged face and a haggard frozen right eye that had a clotted iris and the steady look of blindness. He was so tall that he had to stoop to put his hand on the back of the chair across the table from me. He stood there sizing me up without saying anything and I sat there sipping the last of my drink and listening to the contralto voice singing another song. The customers seemed to like corny music in there. Perhaps they were all tired out trying to be ahead of the minute in the place where they worked.
“I’m Prue,” the man said in his harsh whisper.
“So I gathered. You want to talk to me, I want to talk to you, and I want to talk to the girl that just sang.”
“Let’s go.”
There was a locked door at the back end of the bar. Prue unlocked it and held it for me and we went through that and up a flight of carpeted steps to the left. A long straight hallway with several closed doors. At the end of it a bright star cross-wired by the mesh of a screen. Prue knocked on a door near the screen and opened it and stood aside for me to pass him.
It was a cozy sort of office, not too large. There was a built-in upholstered corner seat by the french windows and a man in a white dinner jacket was standing with his back to the room, looking out. He had gray hair. There was a large black and chromium safe, some filing cases, a large globe in a stand, a small built-in bar, and the usual broad heavy executive desk with the usual high-backed padded leather chair behind it.
I looked at the ornaments on the desk. Everything standard and all copper. A copper lamp, pen set and pencil tray, a glass and copper ashtray with a copper elephant on the rim, a copper letter opener, a copper thermos bottle on a copper tray, copper corners on the blotter holder. There was a spray of almost copper-colored sweet peas in a copper vase. It seemed like a lot of copper.
The man at the window turned around and showed me that he was going on fifty and had soft ash gray hair and plenty of it, and a heavy handsome face with nothing unusual about it except a short puckered scar in his left cheek that had almost the effect of a deep dimple. I remembered the dimple. I would have forgotten the man. I remembered that I had seen him in pictures a long time ago, at least ten years ago. I didn’t remember the pictures or what they were about or what he did in them, but I remembered the dark heavy handsome face and the puckered scar. His hair had been dark then.
He walked over to his desk and sat down and picked up his letter opener and poked at the ball of his thumb with the point. He looked at me with no expression and said: “You’re Marlowe?”
I nodded.
“Sit down.” I sat down. Eddie Prue sat in a chair against the wall and tilted the front legs off the floor.
“I don’t like peepers,” Morny said.
I shrugged.
“I don’t like them for a lot of reasons,” he said. “I don’t like them in any way or at any time. I don’t like them when they bother my friends. I don’t like them when they bust in on my wife.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I don’t like them when they question my driver or when they get tough with my guests,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“In short,” he said. “I just don’t like them.”
“I’m beginning to get what you mean,” I said.
He flushed and his eyes glittered. “On the other hand,” he said, “just at the moment I might have a use for you. It might pay you to play ball with me. It might be a good idea. It might pay you to keep your nose clean.”
“How much might it pay me?” I asked.
“It might pay you in time and health.”
“I seem to have heard this record somewhere,” I said. “I just can’t put a name to it.”
He laid the letter opener down and swung open a door in the desk and got a cut glass decanter out. He poured liquid out of it in a glass and drank it and put the stopper back in the decanter and put the decanter back in the desk.
“In my business,” he said, “tough boys come a dime a dozen. And would-be tough boys come a nickel a gross. Just mind your business and I’ll mind my business and we won’t have any trouble.” He lit a cigarette. His hand shook a little.
I looked across the room at the tall man sitting tilted against the wall, like a loafer in a country store. He just sat there without motion, his long arms hanging, his lined gray face full of nothing.
“Somebody said something about some money,” I said to Morny. “What’s that for? I know what the bawling out is for. That’s you trying to make yourself think you can scare me.”
“Talk like that to me,” Morny said, “and you are liable to be wearing lead buttons on your vest.”
“Just think,” I said. “Poor old Marlowe with lead buttons on his vest.”
Eddie Prue made a dry sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle.
“And as for me minding my own business and not minding yours,” I said, “it might be that my business and your business would get a little mixed up together. Through no fault of mine.”
“It better not,” Morny said. “In what way?” He lifted his eyes quickly and dropped them again.
“Well, for instance, your hard boy here calling me up on the phone and trying to scare me to death. And later in the evening calling me up and talking about five C’s and how it would do me some good to drive out here and talk to you. And for instance that same hard boy or somebody who looks just like him—which is a little unlikely—following around after a fellow in my business who happened to get shot this afternoon, on Court Street on Bunker Hill.”
Morny lifted his cigarette away from his lips and narrowed his eyes to look at the tip. Every motion, every gesture, right out of the catalogue.
“Who got shot?”
“A fellow named Phillips, a youngish blond kid. You wouldn’t like him. He was a peeper.” I described Phillips to him.
“I never heard of him,” Morny said.
“And also for instance, a tall blond who didn’t live there was seen coming out of the apartment house just after he was killed,” I said.
“What tall blond?” His voice had changed a little. There was urgency in it.
“I don’t know that. She was seen and the man who saw her could identify her, if he saw her again. Of course she need not have anything to do with Phillips.”
“This man Phillips was a shamus?”
I nodded. “I told you that twice.”
“Why was he killed and how?”
“He was sapped and shot in his apartment. We don’t know why he was killed. If we knew that, we would likely know who killed him. It seems to be that kind of a situation.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“The police and myself. I found him dead. So I had to stick around.”
Prue let the front legs of his chair down on the carpet very quietly and looked at me. His good eye had a sleepy expression I didn’t like.
Morny said: “You told the cops what?”
I said: “Very little. I gather from your opening remarks to me here that you know I am looking for Linda Conquest. Mrs. Leslie Murdock. I’ve found her. She’s singing here. I don’t know why there should have been any secret about it. It seems to me that your wife or Mr. Vannier might have told me. But they didn’t.”
“What my wife would tell a peeper,” Morny said, “you could put in a gnat’s eye.”
“No doubt she has her reasons,” I said. “However that’s not very important now. In fact it’s not very important that I see Miss Conquest. Just the same I’d like to talk to her a little. If you don’t mind.”
“Suppose I mind,” Morny said.
“I guess I would like to talk to her anyway,” I said. I got a cigarette out of my pocket and rolled it around in my fingers and admired his thick and still-dark eyebrows. They had a fine shape, an elegant curve.
Prue chuckled. Morny looked at him and frowned and looked back at me, keeping the frown on his face.
“I asked you what you told the cops,” he said.
“I told them as little as I could. This man Phillips asked me to come and see him. He implied he was too deep in a job he didn’t like and needed help. When I got there he was dead. I told the police that. They didn’t think it was quite the whole story. It probably isn’t. I have until tomorrow noon to fill it out. So I’m trying to fill it out.”
“You wasted your time coming here,” Morny said.
“I got the idea that I was asked to come here.”
“You can go to hell back any time you want to,” Morny said. “Or you can do a little job for me—for five hundred dollars. Either way you leave Eddie and me out of any conversations you might have with the police.”
“What’s the nature of the job?”
“You were at my house this morning. You ought to have an idea.”
“I don’t do divorce business,” I said.
His face turned white. “I love my wife,” he said. “We’ve only been married eight months. I don’t want any divorce. She’s a swell girl and she knows what time it is, as a rule. But I think she’s playing with a wrong number at the moment.”
“Wrong in what way?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I want found out.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Are you hiring me on a job—or off a job I already have.”
Prue chuckled again against the wall.
Morny poured himself some more brandy and tossed it quickly down his throat. Color came back into his face. He didn’t answer me.
“And let me get another thing straight,” I said. “You don’t mind your wife playing around, but you don’t want her playing with somebody named Vannier. Is that it?”
“I trust her heart,” he said slowly. “But I don’t trust her judgment. Put it that way.”
“And you want me to get something on this man Vannier?”
“I want to find out what he is up to.”
“Oh. Is he up to something?”
“I think he is. I don’t know what.”
“You think he is—or you want to think he is?”
He stared at me levelly for a moment, then he pulled the middle drawer of his desk out, reached in and tossed a folded paper across to me. I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a carbon copy of a gray billhead. Cal-Western Dental Supply Company, and an address. The bill was for 30 lbs. Kerr’s Crystobolite $15.75, and 25 lbs. White’s Albastone, $7.75, plus tax. It was made out to H. R. Teager, Will Call, and stamped Paid with a rubber stamp. It was signed for in the corner: L.G. Vannier.
I put it down on the desk.
“That fell out of his pocket one night when he was here,” Morny said. “About ten days ago. Eddie put one of his big feet on it and Vannier didn’t notice he had dropped it.”
I looked at Prue, then at Morny, then at my thumb. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“I thought you were a smart detective. I figured you could find out.”
I looked at the paper again, folded it and put it in my pocket. “I’m assuming you wouldn’t give it to me unless it meant something,” I said.